Roam: Chapter 11
Chapter 11 Characters * [[865 Young Sural Pavinny Ops, S.|'Young Sural Pavinny Ops, S.']] * (Proud Machyal Sarevir-Machyal, C.) * (Rash Donimal Sarevir, G.) * (Ambyal Voriel Candoam, C.) * (Mouthy Erinvyal Sarevir Voriel, B.) * [[2664 Ife Tusk|'General Ife Tusk']] * [[2384 Oba Tusk|'Oba Tusk']] * Uvinal Voriel-Cuinsal Sarevir, M. * (Moody Machyal Sarevir-Machyal Voriel, C.) * [[1187 Hessal Varagy, C.|'Hessal Varagy, C.']] * [[2668 Onem Starling|'Ambassador Onem Starling']] * [[1254 Coughy Pagnal Juctor, C.|'Coughy Pagnal Juctor, C.']] * [[1780 Flashy Donimal Juctor Qualens, O.|'Flashy Donimal Juctor Qualens, O.']] * [[1054 Scruval Qualens, C.|'Scruval Qualens, C.']] * Rorqual Felegrin, M. * (Pronimal Felegrin Adesican, O.) * Parytal Adesican Candoam, S. * (Gibral Adesican Voriel, O.) * Lumosural Osty Voriel, S. Locations * Senate House Contents Young Sural Pavinny Ops Young Sural still felt that thrill run up the back of his neck as he stood up in the Senate House, a tingle similar but somehow cleaner than that which gripped a man before combat. Sural had never been in control during close-quarters fighting during the war, all righteous hacking and indignant luck, for all his enthusiasm. He had always admired the men who could keep themselves channelling this ethereal grip between the shoulders into deliberate bloodshed, many of them young Officers of the Familial and Companion classes who seemed to be guided by the sure spirits of their noble ancestors. But the Gods had blessed Sural with other talents, and the instincts to seize opportunities like this one here, half-alighted, and to carve out his own swathes. He stayed light on his feet, circling the broken throne and its well of tears as his name was called – “former Sentinel Young Sural Pavinny Ops, to deliver his report on the embassy to Naechis” – allowing his eyes to settle on those of arbitrarily selected spectators as he wandered, speaking to each as if he were all. He never deigned to look down at the Naechisians, of course. “Fellow Senators of the Republic of Roam,” he began, allowing a moment for their full attention, “I left this city some six lunar months ago to, by the consecrated mandate of this body, conduct a comprehensive and uncompromised investigation into the political, economic and military capabilities of our most powerful neighbour and ally, Naechis, whose towering, horned World-Beast strides the northern coast of Pricia from the barren sands of Mughanna to the fertile fields irrigated by the waters of Samyrt itself. Whilst I promise not to recount my experiences day by day, which would likely take as long again when so few of us are assured of such longevity, I beg your indulgence to preface my report with a recollection of a specific sight which I feel encompassed the sentiment of the expedition, if not its detail. This sight was not, as one might expect, in the silver-plated palaces of Naechis, or the approach to Naechym, where the masts of the three hundred ships sunk by Pampal Barbar Qualens proudly line the entrance to the harbour out of which they attempted their doomed flight, nor even in the deserts of Pricia, where eternal flames erupt from the sands to be used by caravan traders to boil their minty teas. “No, surprisingly this vision was to be found here in Scalify, at Felegram, the ancient port of Roam from which I departed this country, and to which I returned. For, as many of you will know, there stands by the water at Felegram a momentous tomb to one mythical King Oiblival, who reigned from the now long-defeated Felegrin-Beast centuries before Semural and Mauchule were conceived. This monument is so marvellous that it was allowed to stand unadulterated when the Republic swallowed the Felegrin Well, despite its veneration of a king, and I believe that this has less to do with the appreciation of our noble forebears for its truly remarkable architecture than it has to do with their fascination with the myths that had grown up around that ancient King, chiefly that represented now only by a colossal, carved stone hilt at the pinnacle of the tomb. It is disputed whether the hilt once held an even greater bronze blade which has long since rusted away (or been stolen) or that there was never a blade at all, to poetically illustrate the legend of the sword. For when Oiblival was a prince, he won a duel with a king of centaurs who dwelt in a neighbouring land, and claimed from him the sharpest sword ever conceived by the gods – so sharp that it cut not only through flesh and sinew and bone as effortlessly as through air, but that it cut through time and memory also, severing the threads that tie our souls to this world of things and to the underworld beneath it. A man cut by the Sword of Memory did not simply die: he was utterly forgotten. Nobody could even grieve for him, for they could not remember him to grieve. His name, his deeds – even his footsteps – were less than forgotten: they had never been known. Prince Oiblival wielded the sword with impunity, rising to be a just and powerful king. Or so we assume. Or so he assumed. For the sword – and those wily centaurs almost certainly knew this – was a curse. Oiblival had no way of knowing if he had ever used it, much less on whom. Had he been just? Nobody could know. Had he been in line for the throne, even? How many brothers had he cut out of history? He surely could not have cut down his father, else he would surely have cut out himself, surely? Surely? And so, without history, without a past of which he or any of his terrified subjects could be sure, Oiblival had nothing. No glory. No achievements. Nothing solid upon which to stand. He might never had used the sword – indeed, he could not have in the world as it is – but the only thing he could be sure of was that victory without recognition is no victory at all. Whilst it has long been said that men can only learn from their defeats, Oiblival, and his resplendent tomb, are a testament to the fact that we must remember that we won when we did. “I can see from the faces of this Senate that this lesson has been forgotten. Those of you who aren’t asleep or heavy-lidded, intently uninterested or simply not Roamans, are largely too young to remember the war which throttled the Republic for nearly nineteen years as Roam reckons. Those who do remember behave as though they would rather forget, as though the shame of the Second Civil War and the Tyranny tarnished the victory that immediately preceded them, rather than each being afforded the appropriate desert of pride – or indeed, shame – where it is due. I do hope that the disciplines of logic and oratory are still taught well enough in the homes of Senators that I need not make the analogy any more needlessly explicit, lest I lose all faith in this once glorious Republic being able to lift its face again to the sun. “So, then, to the city across the water, which we once called out eternal enemy. Though Roam last annexed Wells nearly fifty years ago – or, rather, forty years ago once they relit after Inachiron’s profane arson – Naechis has in the past decade driven a rival from far Hemeridua from four wells west beyond Samyrt, and is in annual contention for another. These lands, once thought scrubby and wild, were nonetheless untouched by the merciless raiding that characterised the final few years of the war, and once under Naechisian jurisdiction have sprung forth not only with olives, figs, almonds, honeys, strong woods and resins of quality comparable with the rest of coastal Pricia, but also with a fresh, eager and rather more ferocious populace than the traditional docile Prician, or the insouciant Naechisian. Though my hosts would not confirm my suspicions, the level of construction and repair work being undertaken atop Naechis suggests that the World-Beast has undergone a series of convulsive expansions since the acquisition of these new wells.” The Naechisian diplomat’s face remained so impassive as to assure Young Sural of his hypothesis. “Meanwhile, Roam acquired a foreign continent across the sea whose barren soil will never be touched by the feet of Roam, and has stubbornly refused to invest the manpower and resources necessary to pacify it by soft or hard means. We consistently make the same mistake, whether it be in war, peacekeeping, or trade, of assuming that one large gesture will crush our enemy when instead we require constant and reliable and, yes, expensive pressure to stop the problem creeping back. There may be less glory in it for a Consul or Marshal thinking for only the ten months of his year in office, but this Senate exists to think in the longer term, and to remember the lessons of our past. Yes, Proud Machyal rid the seas of piracy fourteen years ago, but that did not give us the seas in perpetuity, uncontested. Naechisian ports have undercut ours in taxes, tariffs and anchoring fees – once a seemingly desperate action which now appears a more long-sighted manoeuvre by more experienced tradesmen who knew that we are too proud and leaden-footed to compete. The figures are, of course, tremendously difficult to determine, and in a large part deliberately obfuscated, but by my estimation of comparable commodities, Naechis – a power, do not forget, that Roam drove into the dust twenty years ago with one sandal, metaphorically, on its throat – is likely to overtake Roaman trade in the next five years, if it has not already done so. Though all that remains of its entire fleet was those masts I saw at attention out from the waves at Naechym, there are more traders sailing under Naechisian protection in the Dedissan Sea than those under Roaman in the Inner – though those Naechisian escorts are, for now of course, limited in their number of oars by Moody Machyal’s peace treaty. Naechym is again so prosperous that it employs a team of divers to recover lost cargo from the constant traffic around its harbour! And those cities opposite Pricia across the Dedissan Sea, Crylaltian cities ceded entirely to Roam in that treaty: Climadram, Tricadis, Brandanam – even Sycadram, tucked behind Spydoron’s Walls – sympathise more with their trading partners in Naechis than with their Governor in Delebram, or their masters here in distant Scalify, who have made no sustained effort to welcome them, enrich them, or protect them. Not even so much as a glorious Roaman road to dazzle them, and allow our Governor’s forces to negotiate the continent more readily. No, of course, we won the war, and we forgot our obligations. The continent is arguably more Naechisian now than when the Sarevans called for the aid of Roam at the outset of the entire sorry endeavour. How long before these cities, in the Roaman Republic, are again garrisoned by men paid in Naechisian silver? What a preposterous suggestion, I hear you mutter. Senators, if you doubt that economic recovery in Naechis has begotten military recovery then I would suggest that you have not been listening. “The Naechisian people very much have been listening. While Roam stagnates, bloated and satisfied like an aged lion, given to soft pleasures while his claws dull, Naechis is pervaded by an air of motion and opportunity, bound together more each day in common purpose forged by the memory of their shared defeat. Voices of action and of vengeance – of risk as a virtue rather than a folly – speak ever louder in the chambers of the Waterfall Council, not least that of Dedissa Sundown, the noble and vicious widow of the Black Wolf of Crylalt, Osa Tusk, and mother of our guests Oba and Ife Tusk. Where are our voices of action, I ask you? Where is the ambition of Roam, whose military prowess subdued all the world until we allowed ourselves to be subdued by the cultures we had bested? Two of our sons yet fight.” Young Sural took a breath to compose himself, aware of the controversial stance he was about to take. “Curly Coltal, that capricious Scion of Candoam, the most capricious of Gods, seems a man of the wrong age, champing at the bit to run roughshod over the barbarians who once laid this city low, like Hyberital Barbar Adesican reborn. I agree that he appears to have erred in his enthusiasm, but cannot help but pin that blame on the men in this palace, content with their lot, who sent him to the edge of the world to be rid of him, and the mirror he holds up to them, rather than channel his talents. And now he marches on Roam? One is reminded of the drunken fool Qual that started the Fire of Roam, who chose to sleep rather than douse the smouldering threshes of his house, assuming that his pail of water would still be enough to extinguish the flames when he awoke. Roam burned. Do not think that this city cannot still burn now, though its wood seems supplanted by brick and marble. And where is our water? What buckets do we have to hand? For all Scruval’s generosity and benevolence, his Inachrians are boys fighting in an outdated, ceremonial Issycrian manner, whereas Curly Coltal is a student of the battles of Hyberital, and the cavalry thrusts of Moody Machyal. If Roaman is to once again spill the blood of Roaman, then it is difficult to contend with the assertion that the protection of this city ought to fall to its greatest living general, Triumphant and Consular colleague of Scruval, Proud Machyal Sarevir-Machyal. And where is he, our other son who still fights for the glory of Roam? Across the Inner Sea, continually frustrated by the reluctance of this body to grant him the resources he needs, not to illegally strike out beyond the borders of the Republic but to defend its territory, hard-won with the blood of a generation and more.” “Where is Roam? When the Feors drove south onto the plains, when the Straequians and Neluntians, and the Fuscrites and the Oscumites, the Kyraspans, Inachrians, and Scrutans, stood on our lands, their Beasts drinking from our Wells, did we ever once hesitate? Or did every man not hand his sickle and whip to his sons and wife, take up his spear and march forth before the horn was even blown? He did not wait for the man next to him, smug in the knowledge that they are both too guilty and cowardly to ever be blamed for their inaction. I know that I am widely despised in this chamber and beyond for many reasons of varying validity, but chief amongst them, I have no doubt, is my willingness to name parties individually rather than let guilt dilute throughout the room, seeping out of the tunnels and the cracks of the palace, down the hill into the Great Sewer and then down the six hundred paces to the distant ground with the effluvia of the city. No, I name you, repercussions be damned, so that your name lives forever in those tablets in the archive, and not only the eyes of these men here, but their descendants too, can judge you until Roam is only a memory.” “Rash Donimal Sarevir, Conduit of Sarevir and lately of the poisonous Dissenters, I name you: you were entrusted, as the first Governor of Crylalt, to uphold the legacy of those who died to secure it for Roam, but instead took to laze and debauchery in your palace, safely across the sea from the circuit of Roam. You had a chance to seize the continent at a moment of profound upheaval and turn it to the Republic’s advantage, but you are not a man of character or intuition. You allowed diplomatic relations with our neighbours and allies in Kyraspa to lapse repeatedly despite Proud Machyal’s personal efforts, and what is more let the best troops go unpaid, leaving them to banditry and debauchery. How your fellow traveller Crooked Nusal was recalled in disgrace from Inachria while you saw out your term there is a jaw-clenching reminder that Juctor does not being forth judgement without the aid of men. If this body were as it was, you would both have been ejected long ago for dragging it into disrepute. Yes, snarl at me, laugh if you must to hide your shame, or show your shamelessness. You have left the Republic vulnerable, tantamount to treason, and its every citizen ought to scorn you for even the shadow of disaster resulting from your selfishness and irresponsibility. “But you are not solely to blame, of course, in trapping Proud Machyal between an increasingly belligerent Naechis gaining influence in his Province and a threat to Roam itself in Scalify, and to some your crimes of thoughtlessness due to your deficient temperament are less than those born of spite. For Ambyal Voriel Candoam, the Patriarch and Conduit of Voriel, who spoke just earlier of protecting Roam from its enemies, is of course the husband of Proud Machyal. My second husband died two years ago, so perhaps things have changed since, but we understood that marriage was not simply a cold contract between two men, but a divinely consecrated bond of trust and amity, even affection within respectable grounds. It is a matter of faith, in an increasingly faithless world. It is well known that Ambyal and Proud Machyal married to provide Ambyal with the Scion he has lacked since the tragic death of his young son Vagal nearly a quarter of a century ago, and to provide Proud Machyal with the presence on Roam required to repair the damage done by Rash Donimal in Crylalt – namely, a fleet capable of patrolling its coasts and transporting men around quickly enough to compensate for the lack of infrastructure and numbers to maintain a blanket presence. Though their wife Scruvas Anyly is yet to conceive, she is a handsome and dutiful girl, which – even if I did not know Proud Machyal well – would leave me in little doubt that he is pursuing his end of the bargain vigorously. Yet where is the fleet? I have a near unmatched record of attendance at these sessions, and still retain a memory as sharp as a squirrel’s, but cannot once recall Ambyal proposing a bill, or even amending one, to provide such assistance to Proud Machyal in six years. I have no doubt that there are a thousand reasons why not, but looking past those for one’s husband – and the Republic, no less – are what make a marriage of good faith, not holding the defence of Roam ransom to the dice of conception. “I know that you are asking why my report on the state of Naechis has become a prosecution, but it is to highlight the disparity between this city, inwards and down, and that of our neighbour, flexing to its full height with renewed vigour. I will curtail my list of charges for brevity, such as it can be squared with my conscience, lest I am mistaken for a clerk reading the rolls of every Senator and Magistrate on Roam, but will make a small allowance for another Sarevir deserving of particular despisement, a Sarevir in name only that one suspects of maternal infidelity or a changeling conspiracy in the cot: Mouthy Erinvyal Sarevir Voriel, our delinquent Patriarch of the God of bravery and protection. Why does it not surprise me to note his absence? Beyond any others, Mouthy Erinvyal ought to be advocating for Proud Machyal, the brightest burning light descended from their divine ancestor, yet he seems pathologically incapable of performing any duty of any sort to anyone but himself, even actively undermining his Constitutional superiors such as Proud Machyal when he served under him in Crylalt through open and profane insubordination that should have seen his execution. If this is the state of the Patriarch – and the Conduit, Rash Donimal – of our patron God of war, then perhaps all is lost, and Sarevir has lain down his shield and spear. But I do not believe it. “I do not believe that the blood of each Roaman does not still run red, and that the heat of our ancestors cannot course through our veins if we lift our heads and choose to remember. Because, if we remember or not, Naechis does. It remembers the burning of its cheeks as it signed that blasted treaty, as I do, and it wants to be allowed to forget, like we have. The reparations that many thought would cripple them have done no such thing, nor has it starved them, though those who went so hungry harbour resentment for Roam, know that! Naechisians once again eat so much as to grow strong, some even to grown fat, and they buy finer clothes than most found in the Far Forum. Perhaps this doesn’t alarm you? What matter if they luxuriate? I’ll tell you, and beg that you remember this when I am dead and cannot remind you in person: those that can afford silks can afford swords. And they can afford friends. “Naechis is hiring its mercenary armies again, and its younger military class are learning the ways of war in far-flung theatres under foreign banners, inspired by our new guest Ife Tusk, whose exiled army in north Samyrt has acquired a cult fascination with striking similarities to that of our own troublesome son, Curly Coltal. Garrisons across Pricia are overflowing, and ambitious mercenary captains are offering military support to any and all buyers in the world, subsidised by the Naechisian state, all technically within the letter of our peace treaty. There are at this very moment Naechisian-led forces of Pricians, Hemeriduans, Mughanneans and even Crylaltian slingers in Black Treacia – to our east! – aiding the young King Pomander deal with the repercussions from Curly Coltal’s campaigns north of their border. How have we slept through this? We have allowed a wounded enemy to coil around us through all of our neighbours. And these are only the actions of Naechis which it cannot hide. Our spies in the city – who, I must stress, are aghast at the lack of reaction and attention to their reports – insist to a man that Naechis is making illegal payments to our more venal neighbours to buy their favour, and in cases where it is not a fruitless endeavour, are funding opposition movements to undermine the acting governments of a number of states. I will repeat that: Naechis is actively fomenting rebellion and sedition around the Inner Sea. Those who have until now considered those of us suspicious of the motives of the Dissenters and their persistent growth over the past five years despite the repeated dismantling of their insubstantial arguments and the shifting mirage of their demands would do well to consider the serious possibility that our enemy, defeated by conventional means, has infiltrated and corrupted our Republic in the despicable manner reserved for those bred of merchants, not warriors. Which is not to say that some of these red-faced dolts are not simply innocent fools, of course – we should allow them the benefit of the doubt. Others, such as those with interests in the slave trade, might well have calculated that they could benefit from conflict whichever way it concludes, as long as they are not executed for treason.” Uvinal Voriel-Cuinsal, with his high, sharp cheekbones, was not an easily rattled man. He made a good show of dismissing Young Sural’s insinuation with an exaggerated, tired roll of his eyes. “Twenty years ago,” Sural continued, “I stood with Moody Machyal Sarevir-Machyal Voriel at the highest point of Naechis, to which we had been summoned to negotiate the surrender of the enemy, its client peoples in open revolt, its fleet awash on the rocks, its fields salted and burned, its canals blocked and choked, its very spirit broken. Across the Dedissan Sea ahead of us, Osa Tusk and his army alone fought on, without military or political support. Naechis is a tremendously beautiful city, clad in silver and bronze, spires straining ever higher atop its back and head. Moody Machyal has a reputation a tyrant and a butcher – well earned through his tyranny and butchery – but this was before that, for the most part. It is difficult to try and see someone in the past as they truly were, not fogged by the actions and events that had not yet occurred. We were discussing the proposed terms of the treaty, then still in an embryonic stage. I was soon to receive quite unexpected orders from the Senate to take up a post at the Aeran Well in Fuscry, from where I would be unable to further counsel the Marshal. I argued that Roam, since the Second Fuscrite War, had learned to never leave an enemy wounded and not finish the job, distasteful though it might seem in the short term. Roam doesn’t make peace treaties: it demands unconditional surrender. With Naechis across the sea, for the first time we had fought a war without the guidance and support of Roam-Beast itself. To ensure that Naechis would not again rear its head, vengeful and bloodthirsty, it fell to us to destroy the city ourselves, while it was at our mercy. To save lives. I took no pleasure in saying so, looking on that gleaming horizon, and no pleasure in saying so now. Moody Machyal was furious at my heartlessness, but I knew the pain – the burden – of not insisting to my father and grandfather that they kill Inachiron when they had the chance, convention be damned. If only Machyal had been the monster he is always said to be – which he became. He would not hear of my suggestion again – his civic name was well earned. “But I have the floor now, and I won’t let myself go unheard. Naechis is rising. It is unfurling. And its eyes are fixed on Roam. Osa Tusk ended every command with three words, a maxim which became a form of salute in his army – to this day! – and which is engraved on the hearts of his sons sat here, and their brothers elsewhere: Roam Must Fall. He would not have hesitated to lay this city to waste given the chance, and he would not have let us be reborn, clad in furious vengeance. His widow speaks these words in the highest courts of Naechis, and they echo louder each day as our enemy grows stronger, and we rot. This is the conclusion of my mission, and my report: Naechis must fall. We must strike as soon as possible, to save the most lives and bring the least suffering. If we cannot conquer Pricia, as I fear from our abject experiment in Crylalt, then we must salt her lands, burn her wells like Inachiron, ruin her ports and enslave her peoples. I can see that my suggestion seems abhorrent to those of you here who have been swayed by the Issycrian philosophies, which profess to rationality yet confound goodness with niceness, and espouse such nonsense that there are no better or worse values, only different cultures. What will you say when the Naechisian is here, his barbarian mercenaries kicking down your door, your women and children defenceless? Will you shrug, and accept this next turn in the dance of cultures? Or will you wish that you had taken up the sword and shield when warned, and asserted the values of Roam, which cradled you and yours? Naechis must fall. This is the only conclusion.” Ife Tusk Ife’s Roaman was not quite strong enough to keep pace with all of the speaker’s tirade, but he knew exactly what he was seeing as the old man in his white toga trod about, stoking what fires he could. He had been hearing rousing speeches since before he could walk, exhorting men to war, appealing to principles beyond themselves to fool them into risking their own survival. He could also see that it was not working at all well: Senators varied between indifferent, disbelieving and outraged at this Young Sural’s warmongering, for the most part, though largely silently. Hessal Varagy was near apoplectic, his downturned lips twitching into a teeth-baring snarl quite uncontrollably. Young Sural gave the Consul a respectful nod – not at all appreciated – and sat down again. “The Naechisian Ambassador Onem Starling is invited to remark upon Young Sural’s report,” said Hessal, his voice tight and dry, “though I fully understand why he might choose to decline.” Starling waved away the Consul’s qualifiers as he stood, smiling as if the incitement to war had been some amusing anecdote. He rubbed his palm over his fist, then held both hands open, stepping forward into the circular stage and pivoting to reveal the nothing he was holding to the Roamans, like a street magician. “My friends, I beg your forgiveness for speaking in Issycrian, a tongue with which I am far more comfortable and is widely considered the common language round all the Inner Sea. I hope this decision will not be interpreted as some cultural infiltration, as I agree with Young Sural Pavinny Ops that there are differences in the values of our peoples, yet I have no intention of imposing mine. That respect of differences is one I believe that we share, however: the acceptance of others as they are is the basis of friendship, though advice can always be offered. The Naechisians, your friends across the sea, ascribe far greater value to trade, peace and growth, economically speaking, than Roam, born I believe from our origins as a trading colony in a foreign land as opposed to yours as fierce warriors defending your Scalifian hills. I do not come bearing weapons, or even closed fists. War is antithetical to our aims. War brought about our darkest hour. Young Sural is afraid of how we have prospered in peace, yet concludes that we want to abandon this ship for one we have already seen sink? “I don’t deny that there are militant voices amongst the embittered segments of Naechisian society, but they are a mirror of Young Sural: isolated and paranoid, if I may be so direct. That he sees them as a threat reflects only the disparity between Young Sural’s perceptions of himself and the reality, I’m afraid. My visit here is no mere formality, but I am charged by the Waterfall Council to reaffirm the continuing peace between our peoples with deeds over words, if I may. “Within the month, Naechisian ships will dock at Nephon in Inachria, laden with the fruits of our resurgent prosperity of a value matching the total outstanding reparation payments levied by the peace treaty extant between our cities, ahead of schedule. Before the agitators again raise their voices to question our commitment to peace once we are no longer indebted to Roam, we will not only bestow the Roaman treasury with an additional contribution as a show of good faith, but also reinforce the marriage ties first forged eighteen years ago in order to moderate the most belligerent parties in our societies and assure the agitators and the anxious of our eternal dedication to peace.” Ife felt eyes upon him, and the viscous realisation of the true reason for his presence. He had no doubts that his mother had never agreed to this proposition. His brother shuffled nervously beside him, his failure to produce a son suddenly a matter of concern for Ife. Had Oba known? They had all known that he would never assent to this without duplicity and a threat to his reputation. Starling saw the Tusks as more of a threat than Roam, that was certain. Ife was not on ground of his choosing, nor using his favoured weapons. If he were to survive this a free man, with the situation and the players becoming clearer, he would have to adapt, or change the situation. He had no intention of being another hostage to Roam. Ife looked at the faces of his other hosts: Hessal seemed too rattled by Sural’s speech to care much, or reveal whether he knew; Coughy Pagnal was giving Ife a stern look, clearly part of this conspiracy; Flashy Donimal was smirking as if he had had the slightest part to play, rather than being a babysitter. Starling had been rattling off some empty rhetoric to round off his announcement, about the continuing amity between these rival states, while Ife had been coming to terms with the news, followed by a warm round of applause, and Hessal was stood gain, announcing some meeting of the city elders to determine a good match for Ife, and apologising again for the unwarranted belligerence of Young Sural. “If I may?” announced a confident voice, also in finely-accented Issycrian, from up behind Ife and the Naechisian delegation. “The Senate does not recognise the voice of Scruval Qualens,” said Hessal, somewhat tetchily to Ife’s eye. He turned to observe the interrupting Senator, a few seats back, known across the world as the richest man in the Republic, and probably outside it – a self-made man that many Naechisians spoke of with rare admiration. He was not a handsome fellow, in his mid-fifties, with a curiously pigeon-like chest which caused his toga to hang oddly around his middle, which itself was not insubstantial. His arms seemed short, with his free hand constantly fidgeting by his side as he spoke. His skin was ruddy, hanging lazily from his undistinguished bones, and his voice was particular and precise, with a honed rasp which was unexpectedly pleasant to listen to. “I find that quite unlikely, Consul,” Scruval said, drawing a polite chuckle from around the chamber. “I appreciate that I am not scheduled to speak, but request just a moment to serve the spirit of peace and concord espoused by the eloquent ambassador from Naechis. Consider it an amendment, if you must.” That Hessal even considered the offer for a second intrigued Ife, so eager was he to maintain order at other times. The influence of Scruval’s wealth must have been more formidable than that of the Dissenters, though Uvinal Voriel-Cuinsal was certainly not a poor man as head of the Voriel-Cuinsal slaving concern, whose VC brands could be found on men beyond the edges of the map. “I have stood merely to announce a banquet in our guests’ honour this evening at my townhouse,” Scruval said, not waiting for Hessal’s express approval. “Invitations will be sent to all the greatest men of Roam – of politics, religion, art and war – and their wives, to share fine wine and conversation in the name of peace and prosperity.” “This is the Senate of the Republic of Roam,” shrieked Young Sural in Roaman as he stood, his toga flapping as he gestured furiously, “not some tawdry corner of the lower fora, or steamy bath-house for any and all to announce their grotty, sodden orgies!” “Be seated, Young Sural,” Hessal erupted, his cheeks flushed, “or I will have you ejected, if not tried for treason!” Young Sural weighed up the worth of a response, but the jeers and catcalls of the other Senators pressed him back down into his seat, resulting in a second, more vigorous round of applause at his expense. Hessal took several seconds to bathe in the adulation, though it was more the enemy of his enemy than his friend, before he dismissed Scruval Qualens with a mutual nod as the noise died away. “Next on the agenda is an announcement by Rorqual Felegrin,” said Hessal, motioning to an old Senator whose toga trim, Ife believed, marked him out as a former Marshal of Roam. “Thank you, Consul,” said Rorqual, whose dark wig was obvious even from the distance Ife sat from him. He read from a tablet in Roaman, rarely looking up except when he remembered, with choreographed hand-gestures. “This morning I shaved my face and left my house for the first time since the death of my cousin Uvinal Felegrin, who served as Consul alongside Vain Prellal Qualens Juctor, the Patriarch of Qualens, eleven years ago.” A number of Senators shouted, “He died well!” in response, throwing Rorqual off his rhythm for a moment. “His son, Pronimal Felegrin Adesican, Officer of the Republic, is still in his grief seclusion, as his duty and honour demands, but has granted me leave to speak on his behalf. In celebration of the life and career of Uvinal and his contributions to the Republic in times both of peace and of war, the Felegrin family will sponsor a day of funeral games at the Stadium, with a full program of boxing, wrestling, gladiatorial combat, comedy, and chariot-racing, with a Race to Degnal’s Gates to appease the keepers of the Underworld.” Beside Oba, Flashy Donimal perked up. “There will of course be bread provided for the people of Roam, to whom Uvinal and the Republic owe so much. Thank you.” The Senate applauded warmly, more glad to be rid of the Senator’s monotone than anything else. Ife wondered whether he might be able to attend the games at the Stadium: he had a fondness for horses, and the Roamans fighting his father had exhibited some impressive skills in the saddle, particularly the Sarevirs and their secretively-bred blood-horses, which sweat red. Proud Machyal had surely learned much from his time during the war, eventually riding alongside Ife’s father’s favoured Mughannean outriders against his fellow Roamans. A pity that the man was not on Roam; he perhaps singularly amongst the Roamans, might be worthy of Ife’s respect. At least some of his sons were here, though, including Odd Otibryal’s husband Lumosural. Perhaps they could practice alongside one another, if introductions were made? Hessal had announced a new item on the agenda, some obscure legal case. Ife wondered quite how long he was expected to endure all of this talking. “The Sentinel isn’t allowed in the Senate House,” muttered Oba to his younger brother in Naechisian, and Ife felt his shoulders tense up, as if he had not truly heard his brother speak – or even seen him, truly – before then. He was wary of replying, as if this brother might scurry away out of sight if Ife moved. “He is only allowed to act through proxies, or shout from outside the precincts. It was a concession, a compromised reached during the endless class conflicts between the Familials and non-Familials which defines Roaman history.” Class conflicts didn’t decide history, people did; people who made up the history, and the historians who made up history. But Ife said nothing. There would be a time for disagreements later, when they were safe and elsewhere, away from Roam. Ife had little time for the political intricacies of the Roaman Senate, or the Waterfall Council of Naechis, or the myriad committees that precessed about the Sun-Prince. He despised those Issycrian rhetorical schools which saw dialogue as a goal in itself, the emptier the more laudable, a mystical path to better communion with the truer world behind the veils of suffering and strife. All of them existed to consolidate and obfuscate power, and to hamstring men of action, who threatened their comfort. History was about when the men of action took action against the men of inaction. Perhaps on Roam that manifested in such a way that seemed a class conflict, but Naechis was at least a degree less classed, and had no lack of conflict or treachery, for all the Starlings and their rhetoric of peace and stability. “May the Senate hear the voice of Parytal Adesican Candoam, Sentinel of the Republic?” came a voice from one of the entrance tunnels under the seats opposite Ife and his brother, surprisingly well projected. Ife wondered whether there were some clever architectural trick at play in the acoustics. “The Senate hears the Sentinel, but bids him remain without,” Hessal called out with a roteful cadence to nobody, a ridiculous spectacle. “You have the floor.” “Thank you, Consul,” the voice responded. “I have approached the Senate in my role as guardian of the Constitution to refer a legal case which has been appealed to me of great constitutional import.” Ife frowned, unsure whether he was having a hard time understanding the Roaman or whether the absent Sentinel was a clunky speaker. The winces on some of the Senator’s faces indicated the latter. “The Officer Gibral Adesican Voriel, son of the late Consul Ambyal Adesican and half-son of the Patriarch and Conduit of Voriel Ambyal Voriel Candoam, had petitioned that his fathers be legally switched, that he might provide his half-father with a son and a Scion of Voriel to appease the gods and ensure the preservation of the Republic. The Marshal Young Lecarol Qualens Sarevir, sitting in judgement of the case, dismissed the request on the grounds of its lack of precedent, and concerns about its ramifications for the class system of the Republic.” “Do you consider the judgement of Young Lecarol to be in error?” asked Hessal. “I believe that there is room for wider interpretation of the law,” came the voice, met with an outbreak of disgruntled muttering amongst large patches of the Senate. If the Sentinel said anything further, it was drowned out. “I believe that the Sentinel would like the favour of the next Patriarch of Voriel,” Oba said with an insider’s smile, clearly enjoying nudging his younger brother through the finer points of Roaman politics. “I believe that he would also, with his cousin Thorny Cuinsal, have room for wider influence in the noble Adesican family.” Ife tried not to grimace with disdain at his brother’s interest in Roam, and the satisfaction it seemed to bring him, a son of Osa Tusk. The eldest son of Osa Tusk. “The Senate must have order to hear the voice of the Sentinel,” chided Hessal. “It is the Constitutional, Gods-given right of the Sentinel to exercise his judgement as to which appeals might be brought before the Senate. You are all quite welcome to attend the session of the appeal and express your opinions on the matter through the Constitutional and Gods-given right of your vote. Attendance at such sessions is always humbling.” A smug chuckle, and the grumbling slowly began to peter out, but not before Onem Starling asked a question of Oba from the other side of Ife: - “Is somebody behind this, Oba, to undermine the Consul?” “How do you mean?” Oba frowned. “Companion and Familial class strife, with a presiding – dare I say it, unpopular? – Provincial Consul?” Onem asked. “Who gains? These Dissenters?” “I…” Oba gummed up in thought. Ife glanced over at the Dissenters, wondering how such a clump of soft faces might pose a threat to anybody. “I’ll have to consider it. I had not considered such an ulterior motive.” Oba flashed Ife a sheepish little smile, as if he had been caught not doing his homework by their mother. Ife responded with an accommodating twitch of his lips. “Sentinel, the appellant is not a Senator, correct?” asked Hessal above the tail of the hubbub. “Correct, Consul,” Parytal replied. “He is a serving Officer of four-and-twenty years, and as such requires a Senatorial advocate to argue his case.” “Who will speak for Gibral Adesican Voriel before the Senate of the Republic of Roam?” asked Hessal with a theatrical twist from the hips, his arms outstretched. “I shall,” stood a man of imposing build and a strong jaw, to the jeers and obscene gestures of many of the Familial Senators with their colourfully trimmed togas. “Lumosural Osty Voriel has elected to speak for the plaintiff,” announced Hessal. “Who will speak for the Constitution?” “I shall,” stood Young Sural, to even greater jeers. A couple of other Senators who had been slower to stand up bellowed open abuse at him. Evidently most would have preferred to have a Familial fight their own corner, but Ife couldn’t help but admire this daft old man for his self-destructive stubbornness. “Have you not spoken enough, Young Sural?” growled Hessal, to the appreciation of some. “The Constitution has never spoken enough?” Young Sural declared pompously, to widespread ridicule which Ife imagined kept him warm at night. “What did it say to Moody Machyal?” came a furious shout from the back benches, which Young Sural didn’t so much as twitch at as he sat again. “Snake!” “Liar!” “Murderer!” “Our friend Sural appears to like picking a fight,” Starling said to Oba. “One is surprised to find he has any friends at all, given such a long career.” “One suspects that a politician with a lot of friends has more compromises than principles,” said Oba. “Politics is the art of the compromise, my boy,” chuckled Starling. “Not if it leaves you compromised,” Oba shook his head. Ife heard something of his father in his brother’s voice and words for the first time, and was encouraged that his time here might not be a complete folly. “Very well,” Hessal said wearily. “The Senate will sit in final judgement of the arguments at the next suitable session. Thank you, Sentinel Parytal. The Senate will now take a short recess and resume in half an hour to complete the agenda.” The Senate was nearly all on its feet immediately, shuffling towards the promise of cool breezes beyond the exits as the Consul spoke. “Next item on the agenda is a complaint from the Marshal of the Walls Machyal Juctor-Ormanal Candoam regarding improper usage of the Stadium as a shortcut and thoroughfare.” The subject caused a widespread chuckle from the fleeing Senators, who seemed to have heard the complaint before. “Absences following the recess will be noted!” The Consuls approached the Naechisian delegation from across the Senate floor. “I apologise profusely for the actions of Young Sural,” said Hessal. Young Sural still sat resolutely in his favoured place, his eyes fixed on the broken throne, pretending not to listen to them in the emptying chamber. “Your apology is further insult, Hessal,” fumed Coughy Pagnal, who clearly had been holding his burning tongue. “I ordered you to muzzle your friend, but clearly your friendship with that bigot is hampering your ability to act as a Consul, if you ever had it.” “You have no right to give orders to me, Coughy Pagnal,” said Hessal, his eye twitching with wounded pride. “We are co-Consuls. Equals in the eyes of the law and the Gods. And not even a Consul can control the actions of a man, nor expect him to do the opposite of that which he promised.” “This session of the Senate,” Coughy Pagnal insisted, “was a shambles. Your shambles, though it will tarnish my reputation.” “My friends!” said Onem Starling as he stood. “I spoke no untruth in this chamber. The foolishness of Young Sural is upon Young Sural alone, and has no bearing on the relationship of our cities. It was an invigorating session of refreshingly frank and robust democracy which only deepened my respect for your government and people. I will find further apologies patronising, and beseech you to banish them from your thoughts and conscience.” “Very well, Ambassador,” nodded Coughy Pagnal, his neck still visibly furious. “Are the Tusk brothers of the same mind?” asked Hessal. “Certainly,” Oba answered immediately. “Roam is my second home; Roamans my second family. I wish for nothing more than harmony between us.” All eyes turned to Ife. “The man demanded the destruction of Naechis, a city I am sworn to defend,” he said slowly. He watched the reactions of the gathered Consuls and Naechisians as they considered whether he might feel aggrieved: Hessal fretful; Coughy Pagnal tensed; Starling discriminating; Oba wincing in anticipation. “Out of pride. Out of fear. Out of grievance. I have nothing to fear from prideful, fearful men at war with their yesterdays.” The others seemed to expect him to say something more, but had to please themselves with that. “You are welcome to slip out, of course,” Coughy Pagnal said, to Hessal’s obvious but restrained affront. “The rest of the session will, hopefully, be rather more dull.” “I would not dream of it,” Starling shook his head, with Oba in silent agreement. “I wonder whether I might observe the Officers in training?” Ife asked. “The cavalry of Roam carries an ever-greater reputation.” “A terrific idea,” Coughy Pagnal said with vigour. “Donimal can give you a full tour of the Stadium and the Sarevir Gymnasium.” Don seemed pleased with the prospect of escape to his horses, even if saddled with Ife. “A generous offer,” Ife nodded. “Thank you, Consuls, for allowing me to attend this illuminating session of your esteemed Senate.” Nobody mentioned the marriage trap, of course. Category:Chapter Category:Sural POV Chapter Category:Ife POV Chapter